Here comes your father, again. They've found your hiding spot. Not that it was a good one to begin with....... But he always knows where to find you anyway. You know why he's coming to find you. It's always the same thing. "We're here to spend time with your grandparents. They won't be around forever." Except you're scared. Because you know this is true. Two years ago you lost your Grandfather on your mothers side, and last summer you lost a close family friend. Your Grandmother was diagnosed with Geo-Blastoma, a brain cancer. After going through chemo, she deteriorated until she could no longer move. She used to be a concert pianist. Now, she can only lie in bed. It took months, of course, but now she just lay in bed. Too weak to open her eyes or do anything. Too weak even to clear her throat. She hadn't had anything to eat or drink in days. You were afraid and sad and angry and regular. Your schoolwork was suffering, and you'd missed more days of school in a month than you had in all of your years at your school. You wanted to be left alone. That was why you were hiding away from prying eyes at the balcony connected the upstairs rooms above the music room. You could see and hear everything. The two grand pianos sitting opposite each other so your grandparents could play duets and teach, your violin, viola and music leaning against the leg of the left grand piano, all in the far part of the room which was situated in a half-decagon. Then in the part of the room that was rectangular, you could see on the left the two-foot bookshelves under the windows, the plants on top of the bookshelves but in between and in front of the windows, the small circular table with the two old comfy chairs, the square table about a foot away to the right, the long feather-stuffed couch behind it, and the makeshift high-mattresses twin bed next to the other bookshelf. They weren't technically bookshelves, because they only held music. Lots of it. Records, piano scores, librettos, operas, and musical dissertations. On the right next to the stairs leading to the balcony you were on and past the bookshelves, there was a door that led to the garage. You could hear everything that went on in this room, and were seldom noticed by the people below you. You heard your father coming up the stairs and thought he would ask you if you'd practiced or if you would come down because your grandfather would love to see you. But as soon as you saw his face, you were filled with dread. You didn't want to know, didn't want to hear it. You hadn't heard anything, hadn't felt anything, it couldn't be true. It hadn't happened, it couldn't have happened. But as he reached you, he reaches out and says, "Amah just passed away. Papa Hooray doesn't know yet." You wordlessly follow him down the stairs, go left twice at the end and pass the makeshift bed and the couch on your right, the heater on your left, and continue down the hall. You walk into the room, and your mother is crying along with your great aunt. They have lost a mother and a sister today. Your grandfather doesn't know yet. He is 94. He is stubborn. He will be broken, after this. You stand there for a few minutes, shocked, and you look at your mother. This time, she does not apologize for cryingcan or for breaking down. Your great aunt had her arm around my mothers shoulders. Your mothers eyes show a staggering loss and sadness that you hope never to comprehend, but know that someday, you will. You look at my grandmother. Her face is swollen, her hair mostly fallen out, and her beautiful, musical hands are cold. You touch her hand. Your mother starts to pray, and only then do you start crying. You don't comprehend yet, not fully, and you are at a loss in terms of what to do. After a while, your grandfather comes in. He strains to get his wheelchair to her bedside, and cannot quite see where anything is. He prays, talks to her, he cries. You have never seen him like this. Never seen him broken, shattered. He says he will be with her soon, he will see her soon. You remember the summer of seventh grade, going into eighth, your grandfathers funeral. The father of your father. The first and last time you saw your father cry, deep, racking, shuddering sobs. You mother sang Ave Maria. She was crying by the end. But that was different for her. That was her step-father, and this is her mother. You grandmother. You wonder who will die next year, which grandparent it will be. Your grandfather says he will be with her soon. It might be him. You will see, you suppose. You want to run, to hide, to go to the woods behind the house and just sit and cry........but you can't. You can't get to the woods. Because the ground is covered in snow. At least two feet if not three or four. There will be no walking in the woods today.......... You look at the clock. Your grandmother died at about 12:00. It is now 12:10. You have left the room to leave your grandfather with his beloved Anne, and you wander to the makeshift bed which is yours for now, clutching the tissue box. You grab your stuffed chocolate lab puppy, Baxter, and cry. Your father comes and holds you, but eventually goes to comfort your mother. You flee up to your sanctuary in the balcony, and bring the dog, tissues, and a blanket. Your grandmother is dead, and forever. Never. Now it is Never.
Today at 12:00, my grandmother passed away. Sorry if you don't appreciate being depressed, but here you go. You'll just have to deal with it..............because so do I.